


The Part Of Me

by sasha_b



Series: Live By The Sword [77]
Category: King Arthur (2004), Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-16 22:13:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21505609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: The day following3 Days.  Arthur signs Lancelot up for the Police Academy, and the shift begins.
Relationships: Arthur Castus/Lancelot Benoit
Series: Live By The Sword [77]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/50060
Kudos: 1





	The Part Of Me

Arthur found it hard to keep his eyes open; he kept blinking heavily and the lights of the city blurred and shifted when he did. Almost sickeningly – the air was cool but he was sweating too heavily, and the blinds behind him blew and clanked against the glass of the open door.

He’d started with beer and now had his second dirty martini in his hand – damn Lance and his penchant for hipster drinks – and he lifted the glass, swirling the alcohol around, staring stupidly at the olive that moved sluggishly through the liquid.

The paperwork was turned in, the deed done, and despite the enormity of the situation, and the finality of what he’d done and what Lance was about to do (Arthur should feel really good about it), Arthur felt his gorge rise and his skin crawl. What had he done? Was this really the right decision for either one of them? Would Lance be able to do what he said he could, would he be able to kick the habits he’d built over the past several years – lifetime, really – and live for himself, finally?

Arthur laughed and downed the martini. He rose to make another, but stopped when Lancelot’s warm hand forced him to sit back down on the bench he’d been about to stagger from.

“Drinking alone isn’t your style, Arthur.”

The stars winked and blurred as Arthur watched them, not daring to look into Lancelot’s face. “It is tonight.” He leaned forward and let the glass drop from his fingers, his elbows resting on his thighs, legs spread. The loose cotton pants he wore seemed hot; he sat back up and tugged at the tank top that covered his torso. “Are you warm out here?”

“No, Arthur. It’s chilly, actually. And you’re drunk.” Lance sighed and rubbed at his eyebrow as Arthur attempted to look at him. He caught Lance’s eyes – and tried smiling innocently. 

Lance shook his head slowly, blowing out a breath, and turned to face Arthur on the bench. He wore creased trousers and a button down, and Arthur fingered at the stiff collar of his shirt. Lance tilted his head until he moved away enough for Arthur’s fingers to be dragged off the collar, and he covered Arthur’s hand with his own when Arthur tried to reach for him.

“Did you turn in the papers?”

Arthur took his turn to sigh, the heat of the alcohol burning his mouth and his throat. Six words, so simple, and yet ….

“Yes.”

Lancelot shuddered, his hair whipping in the cool wind that tossed the trees and plants about. The deck was clean; Arthur always kept it nice, but for once, he wished there was something there to distract him from the conversation that was about to happen.

_Because, just because I do. I can’t explain with words. Let me have you. Please, for the love of god, you’re the only thing clean and right in my life. I have no shame. I’ll do anything you ask. I want – I need to be simple again. And the way to do that is with you. You’re the part of me that works, Arthur._

Looking up at the sky, Arthur thought about Malibu and that painful, horrible meeting. And yet here they were, a few months later, and here Lance was, enrolled in the police academy. Starting anew, leaving behind the trash and trials of his youth.

God, please keep him safe. Make this work.

Arthur winced as his head began to pound, and his mouth felt like all the deserts combined into one, dry and dusty and rotten. Like his heart, like his soul. He was nothing without the man next to him, the man that currently held his hand and said nothing, his dark eyes turned to the buildings across from Arthur’s loft, his fingers wrapped in Arthur’s, minutely trembling.

“Everything is – “

“Please don’t.”

Arthur shut his mouth, licking his dry lips. What a difference one day made. Lance held his hand, and finally leaned over, resting his head on Arthur’s bare shoulder. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Arthur answered perfunctorily. He swallowed roughly, feeling his stomach twist and his head spin as though he’d just gotten off a roller coaster – he hated those things. They were too unpredictable as to how they’d make you feel … he swallowed again, his throat bobbing.

His skin stood up in crawling bumps, ants at a picnic, looking for a place to feast. He shivered and slid an arm around Lance’s shoulders, if only to warm himself up. The alcohol had pooled in his brain and his bladder, and he squirmed uncomfortably – uncomfortable with more than just his physical self.

“Funny,” Lance murmured as he rubbed at his nose with his free hand, wincing slightly from residual pain. Their fingers were twined and stuck together despite the coolness of the night. Arthur flexed his; the tightness of the grip claustrophobic and nausea inducing suddenly. He swallowed hard again. “What?”

“Funny how one little thing changes _everything_.”

Arthur opened his mouth; surely he had a smart answer for that one. And then promptly got up, leaned over the pretty balcony with its plants and flower boxes, and threw up.

He felt as though he’d given up the entire contents of his stomach when he was finished; Lance stood behind him, glass of ginger ale in his hand, one of Arthur’s sweatshirts in the other. Weird – when had he gone inside? Nevertheless –

“Thanks,” he croaked out; he set the glass on the balcony and tugged the heavy cotton over his sweaty head. Lance nodded and leaned against the railing as Arthur hunched over himself, left arm wrapped about his stomach, right hand holding the glass of soda as he sipped it slowly. The stars twinkled and the city went on about its life, as theirs seemed to hold still – this moment, frozen, terrifying, forever.

“I won’t let you down, Arthur.”

Soft, impactful words, although the tone of them was as though Lance thought he'd die the next day. Arthur let loose a small groan without meaning to. He moved his hand from his stomach and slid his arm through Lance’s right one, their elbows crooked together oddly. “That’s not even close to something I’d expect from you.”

A laugh. Lancelot held something up, something that glinted in the light of the moon. “This says otherwise.”

Arthur lowered his head. “You gave that to me. Why would you be surprised I still had it?”

“We were children then. Things have changed. When you start seeking God, I know you’re not … why, Arthur?” His words were quiet and innocent, but Arthur could feel the tightness of his skin, the stiffness of the muscles that brushed against his own.

_Because you left me once. What’s to stop you from becoming that person again?_

Arthur had stepped away from Lance as well – he couldn’t hold that to Lancelot alone. But it had been the other man to accept the change and to accept his family finally and Arthur hadn’t been able to – couldn’t, not again – take that. He licked his lips and drank another sip of soda, his stomach aching and empty. Something bright shot across the sky; a plane, a copter, a test from NASA. A star fading and dying?

Arthur held his hand out and Lancelot placed the cross in it. His fingers stayed wrapped in the chain when Arthur closed his hand, and for a moment Arthur wasn’t sure if Lance would let go.

Then he did, and Arthur put the thing away in his pocket.

“How are you feeling?” Lance turned to look at Arthur, and brushed a stray lock of hair out of Arthur’s face; it was sticking to his clammy forehead. Lance’s fingers trembled, and Arthur reached out to catch them in his own. He pressed the rapidly slamming pulse to his lips, slowly brushing them over Lance’s wrist, and looked up into the other man’s dark, dark eyes.

_Sick to death of worry._

“Tired. Let’s go inside.”

Lance smiled, a tiny replica of his normal grin – although Arthur hadn’t seen that real grin in several months – and turned to the open door. Arthur leaned against the railing for a moment, watching the sky, waiting for that thing that had winked a moment ago to do it again. He waited, holding his breath – nothing.

He followed Lance’s footsteps and slid the door shut behind him, closing the blinds, the winking airplane or star burning out quickly as his back was turned.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in 2010, edited in 2019.


End file.
